


Follow Me Down

by AsexualArchivist



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alice In Wonderland AU, Canon typical Martin Sass, M/M, Takes place mid season 3, but also this is an au so if some things are off from canon...... it’s fine. I do what I want., i love the spiral it’s my favorite so expect a lot of strangeness!, mild body horror, minor blood and injury, original Leitner, tags to be updated as the story progresses, very spiral heavy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 18:47:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18946726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsexualArchivist/pseuds/AsexualArchivist
Summary: “I’ll give it back to you,” Michael continued, as his other hand crept up towards Jon’s shoulder. “If you promise to look inside.”Jon kept his voice level, despite the apprehension at the hand moving closer. “Now, why would I do that?”“I will tell you,” he said slowly, dangling the information in front of Jon like a bone in front of a dog, “where that book came from.”aka, Jon falls down the rabbit hole, Martin follows him, and Michael laughs.





	1. Down the Rabbit Hole

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello! This is my first long-form fic but I have SO many ideas and I’m very excited!
> 
> This fic is gonna be very spiral focused, so expect a lot of terrifying and exciting weirdness!
> 
> Hope you all enjoy!

“Statement ends.”

Jon sighed, trailing a hand through his hair as he thought. These statements especially always took a lot out of him. “Not much follow up to be done here. Ms. Wright died about a year after her initial statement, of natural causes, the report says. The charity shop, as is frustratingly the norm, did not keep detailed records of the items donated or the donors. I don’t suppose it really matters; obviously this book was one of Leitner’s, and Ms. Wright did leave it with us upon giving her statement. It’s currently sitting in artifact storage. Perhaps it would be safer to destroy it, though I’m sure Gertrude would have done so if it were possible.” Jon looked off into the distance for a moment. “At least it can’t hurt anyone else, here.”

Jon paused, thinking hard. “Again, I question where these books are coming from. Are they created by the followers of these beings? Probably not, or I certainly would have heard about it by now. Maybe they’re normal books that are simply touched by something darker? And that also begs the question: were they made purposefully, or were they simply a product of residual fear creeping into our world from…wherever these entities come from? If they were made in purpose, who would use a copy of _Alice in Wonderland_ , a children’s book, for a purpose as dark as this? Are the books random, then? Or was this one specifically created to target children? To torture them? It- it doesn’t make sense, which books are chosen, even-” A sigh, then, frustrated and sad, “-even after all these years.”

Jon shook his head. He wasn’t getting anywhere with all these questions, except deeper into his psyche than he would like to delve at work. “End recording,” he muttered, and moved to click the tape recorder off, when he became aware of a sound. It was a familiar sound, like what nails on a chalkboard would sound like if replicated with vocal chords, with ear-splitting static coming up to meet it.

“What do you want, Michael.” Jon really wasn’t in the mood to have his life threatened again, especially not by the entity that most sent his head spinning. 

The thing laughed that damned laugh, reaching a hand with too-long fingers out towards Jon. He flinched away, remembering how sharp those fingers were, before he noticed something in Michael’s hand. Curiosity got the better of him, as it always did, and Jon leaned forward to have a look. Cradled gently between the knife-fingers was a book- and Jon knew without reading the title what the book was. _Alice in Wonderland._

“So, how long have you been spying on me?” He asked, more irritated than afraid of Michael at this point. 

Michael’s sharp grin didn’t falter. “Only long enough to fetch this for you, Archivist. You were going to look for it, after all, weren’t you?”

Jon didn’t say anything, only glared at him.

“I’ll give it back to you,” Michael continued, as his other hand crept up towards Jon’s shoulder. “If you promise to look inside.”

Jon kept his voice level, despite the apprehension at the hand moving closer. “Now, why would I do that?”

“Because I know you, Archivist, and I know what the Eye wants. And since this book is a part of me, I’ll let your Eye see inside and gain what knowledge it has.”

Jon fought the urge to rip the book out of his hand and tell him to shove off. “And what knowledge is that?” An edge of static crept into his voice without him meaning for it to.

Michael laughed his headache laugh. “Not much in the actual pages, I’m afraid. Only spirals and fractals and twisting.” His eyes sparkled and shifted, spinning like twin whirlpools in his thin, bony face. Jon had to look away before he became sick. “But once you have satisfied me, I have something for your Eye. If you satisfy me, that is, before you’re drowned in your own confusion and madness.”

Jon waited for an explanation, and upon not receiving one, promoted Michael further. “What will you give me?” The static was back with a vengeance, and he felt his voice echo as he spoke. 

Michael seemed to shrink back for a moment, almost afraid, before laughing again, louder and more painfully this time. “There’s no need for that, Archivist.” Jon recognized the threat in his voice, and stayed silent. “I will tell you,” he said slowly, dangling the information in front of Jon like a bone in front of a dog, “where that book came from.”

Jon froze. “You know who made this book… did- was this book made by the same- ah, ah!” He broke off with a scream as Michael’s fingers dug into his shoulder.

“I am offering you a deal. If you try to compel me again, I’ll simply kill you.” Michael smiled more brightly than ever, as if imagining Jon’s demise in vivid detail. “You aren’t that important, Archivist. It’s time you realized,” he said, as he dug his fingers deeper into Jon, ignoring his soft noises of pain, “just how little effort it would take to end you. For _any_ of them to end you.”

Jon nodded frantically, desperate for Michael to release him. “No more compulsion. You have my word.”

The fingers left his shoulder, and Jon sagged in relief. Michael laughed again, seeming to relish the way the noise made Jon squirm. “Oh, this will be fun, Archivist! I’ve been so bored lately, and, as troublesome as you are, you can be incredibly entertaining to watch. Especially when you’re so incredibly _ignorant._ ”

Jon wanted to protest, but felt that his current position didn’t really leave him any room for argument. He _was_ playing to the whims of an entity of confusion and madness just to get a little information- information which may not even be all that helpful in the long run.

“Alright.” He muttered, straightening himself up as best he could, and ignoring the blood dripping from his shoulder. “I’ll read your book. And how will I know when you’re satisfied?”

“You’ll Know. I’ll make sure of it,” said Michael, and Jon couldn’t help but not believe him.

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” He asked, careful to keep the static at bay.

“I have never lied to you, Archivist. If I did, you would Know. And I’ve done nothing but help you thus far.”

“Right, and stabbed me a few times for good measure,” Jon muttered, and took the book from where Michael had set it on his desk. He looked up to Michael, who waved in a sort of “go on” motion, and began to read.

The book started normally enough, with Alice following the rabbit to the hole and falling down, down, down… Jon swayed at his desk, feeling the book pulling at him. He kept going as it described Alice’s seemingly endless fall, but the bookshelves seemed to twist and warp around her like modeling clay. Jon saw it, too, the walls shifting as he- as- as Alice fell slowly, then faster, the walls blurring together as they warbled around him- Alice. 

Jon looked up to see his own reality twisting. Michael’s face was stretched out in front of him, too big for his body, and his hands were on Jon’s shoulders again. Jon fought the twin urges to push the thing away, or to grab Michael and pull him closer for something to hold onto in this shifting world. He sat as still as he could as the world swayed around him, melting and cracking and bulging and collapsing… reality was terribly, terribly wrong. Michael’s laugh bubbled up once more, this time surrounding him like a blanket made of knives.

Jon looked down at his hands, making sure they were still there, he supposed. They were, but they too were wrong and twisted, too big and too tilted. His hands shouldn’t look like this, he thought, but it didn’t really matter because everything was wrong, he was wrong, and Michael and his headache laugh were wrong as they spun like a carousel with all of existence.

Then Jon heard the door open. It was sideways, spinning off into the nothingness, and a figure both too small and too big stepped through it with a fearful look on its distorted face.

“Jon-“ he heard, then a clatter of metal and porcelain to the floor, which was now somewhere above them, though Jon still felt his feet firmly pressing down on something quite like the ground beneath him. 

Jon recognized the voice, if not the too-big too-small face.

“M-Mar-“ he managed, before his stomach dropped out from inside him, and the world gave one final twist until it became somewhere else. 

“Have fun, Archivist!”

And suddenly he was falling, head spinning still as that ear-splitting laugh echoed around him.


	2. Welcome to Wonderland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Martin sass is off the charts

Martin was worried about Jon.

To be fair, Martin was usually- well, always- worried about Jon. He didn’t take care of himself, and he seemed to value his work over his own wellbeing. He _did_ value his work over his own wellbeing, Martin corrected himself, because he didn’t think of himself as being worth the effort. And not only did that make Martin worry, it also made him unbelievably sad.

That’s why Martin kept making tea, and took some to Jon every morning: to make sure he hadn’t worked himself into an early grave. Jon never really responded to him; he simply took the cup with a distracted nod and a muttered “thank you,” before absentmindedly taking a few sips. 

Martin couldn’t help but stare at him in those first few seconds. At first, the tea seemed to make no difference to Jon, but as Martin watched, his shoulders settled just a little, and the creases in his forehead smoothed just the slightest bit as he sipped. Martin was helping, in the small way that he could. That’s all that really mattered to him. And seeing Jon’s small smile as he sipped distractedly, so small it almost vanished in the worried lines that made up the rest of his face… well, that was just a bonus. 

The memory of that smile brought one to Martin’s own face as he waited for the tea to steep.

After he had fixed the tea for everyone, Martin made his rounds, trying to make small talk with Melanie and Tim. Melanie was friendly enough, though distracted by some statement she was chasing down for Jon. Tim was… angry, as usual. Martin hoped the tea would help him, too, but it hadn’t really so far. 

He and Jon needed to talk. _Really_ talk, without screaming at each other. Martin doubted they could manage it, but he would bring it up to Jon again anyway. What else could he do?

Martin was feeling less than chipper about the ensuing conversation, but plastered a smile onto his face anyway as he opened the door to Jon’s office, carefully balancing the tray of drinks, now with only two mugs, in his other hand.

“Jon-“ he started, then cut himself off. Jon was sitting at his desk reading a book, but his face was… wrong. His eyes spun like tops in his head, and he blinked up at Martin with a blank look on his face. 

Then Martin noticed the figure behind him, far too stretched out to be human, with its hands on Jon’s shoulders. That… that must be the Distortion. Michael, it was called, Martin thought.

A crash, then, and Martin startled at the sound. He’d dropped the tray, the two mugs shattering on the floor and splashing tea up his trousers. He stepped back as Michael looked at him over Jon’s shoulders, and that was when Martin felt it. The- _shifting_. Reality was coming apart at the seams, and he was caught up in the middle of it.

Jon stumbled to his feet, dropping the book from his shaking hands, though he didn’t seem to notice.

“M- Mar-“ he stammered, before Michael’s laugh washed over them both. 

“Have fun, Archivist!”

And then the world pressed in on itself, compressing and folding like origami until it folded through itself, somehow, opening up a hole where reality overlapped with itself. Jon, without another word, fell forward into it, disappearing into the deep below.

Michael was still laughing, almost hysterically now. “And what about you, Assistant?”

“I-“ Martin started.

“Going to save your precious Archivist?” The spirals in its eyes twirled faster as it continued, grinning so wide its skin looked about ready to split. “He’ll toss you to the wolves, you know, to give the world a couple more decades.”

“What are you-“

“I suppose it doesn’t matter, does it? You’ll go after him anyway! Elias picked you, after all.” Martin tried to get another word in, but was cut off with another painful laugh. “Better hurry, before your window closes!”

Michael was right; the hole in reality was closing rapidly, and it seemed Martin would have only a few seconds to react. He filed away Michael’s words for later, and then, without thinking about what he was doing, jumped in after Jon. Spiraling laughter rang out behind him, and then-

And then he was falling.

The laughter faded quickly, leaving Martin with no sound but the air rushing in his ears. Glancing around, he noticed the walls of the hole were ringed with shelves filled with books and various oddities. 

Without looking, Martin snatched something as he passed. It was a skull, he thought, a human skull. It certainly felt like how he expected a skull would feel, and was the right size and shape. But as he turned it over in his hands, he noticed it was… wrong. It looked like something had been drilled through the forehead and out the back of the head. The empty eye sockets seemed to swirl like whirlpools, aching for something to fill them again, to give it purpose once more. The thing looked at him hungrily. And then, its teeth seemed to curve up in a smile. A low, grinding laugh echoed up from somewhere inside the thing, and Martin nearly screamed.

He shoved it onto the nearest shelf and shuddered. He wished for solid earth beneath him again. He wished the walls would stop twisting and moving like they were breathing.  
He wished he weren’t alone in this place, at least.

Speaking of-

“Jon?” He called out into the nothing. No response. Martin tried to look into the empty space beneath him, but ended up tumbling end over end, earning him nothing but dizziness and a steadily worsening headache.

Martin got the feeling that the headache would remain until he got out of this place.

If he got out of this place.

 _Not helpful, Martin_.

In an effort to ignore that train of thought, Martin looked back on the shelves. To his surprise, they weren’t there any longer; the walls had started shifting and warping even more, contorting into repeating and spiraling shapes and strange images. Martin could swear they were moving towards him, reaching out to him, trying to grab him.

He shut his eyes. “It’s not real, Martin. It- it’s not real…” He kept muttering that to himself as something wet and slimy and inhuman brushed against his arm.

 _What is real, then?_ whispered a voice in his head, and Martin couldn’t tell if it was his own voice or someone else’s.

The rest of the way down Martin refused to open his eyes, ignoring the occasional touches of things that were not human brushing at his clothes, trying to reach inside his skin and into his mind.

Eventually, the air shifted, growing heavier- realer, almost. Martin just had time to notice the change when he crashed to the ground, colliding with something bony and awkwardly shaped.

“...Ow…” muttered a familiar voice from beneath him.

“Oh my God!” Martin jumped to his feet and scrambled back, and, sure enough, there was Jon, looking up at him with his glasses askew and his clothes in disarray. “I’m so sorry, are- are you okay?!”

“Yes, Martin, I’m fine. At least I was, until you fell on top of me.” And, to Martin’s eyes, Jon really did look fine. A fall that long should have definitely at least left a mark, but he found that neither he nor Jon seemed to be injured in anyway. Well, except-

“If you’re fine, why are you _bleeding_ , then?” Martin retorted, with much more bite than he had intended. Jon jumped at the fire in his words, then looked to his shoulder, which was stained dark red. 

Jon at least had the decency to look chastised. “Ah… You… met Michael, I assume? Well. He- ah. Stabbed me.” He shifted uncomfortably under Martin’s unimpressed stare. “...It’s... not really as bad as it looks?” He phrased it like a question, which wasn’t reassuring to Martin in the slightest.

Martin sighed. This is exactly why he worried. “Let me see, then.”

“Really, I’m fine-“

Martin couldn’t stop the angry worry from spilling out of him. “Well, since I’m assuming we’re now trapped in some sort of weird… fear, or- or- madness dimension- I’m also assuming that’s _your_ fault, by the way, we’ll get to that- the least you could do is let me check that you’re not bleeding out on me, since God knows you won’t tell me if you actually _are_ dying. Because if you die here, that leaves me to die here too, spending God knows how long wandering this place until I either succumb to starvation or madness or something even worse. And that might well be the case anyway, but I’m _not_ going to do it alone just because you couldn’t ask for my help with your damn stab wounds!” 

Jon’s eyes went wide, his mouth forming a perfect “o” shape that in any other circumstance Martin would have found adorable. “Oh God, I’m… I’m so sorry, Martin. I never meant for you to be caught up in this mess too, I- I just- I thought-”

Martin had never seen the man look so guilty, so… haunted. The anger faded as soon as it had come, and he sighed, kneeling down next Jon. “It’s fine.” It wasn’t, but they had bigger problems to deal with.

At least Jon hadn’t been lying about his injuries; the bleeding had mostly stopped, and the wounds weren’t as deep as he had feared. Still-

“You probably need stitches for these.”

Jon shrugged, then winced at the pull in his shoulder. “Not much to be done about that, unless you brought a first aid kit?”

Martin scowled back. “If I had known you were doing something _stupid_ , I would have. I suppose it’s my fault for not just assuming that, since it seems to be your default state.”

Jon looked like he was about to argue, then thought better of it. “... Right. That’s… probably fair.” 

They sat in silence for a moment, Martin trying to ignore the burning anger and worry in him, and Jon trying to look like he hadn’t just been reprimanded by his primary school teacher for reading in class.

“So… where, exactly, are we?” Martin asked when he had finally composed himself. Only then did he realize he hadn’t actually made an effort to take in his surroundings, and glanced around. 

The hole they had fallen through was gone, though that hardly surprised Martin. In fact, there didn’t seem to be any ceiling above them at all, just empty sky and the spindly branches of a few twisted trees. The sky was… wrong. The color was off, though Martin couldn’t quite put his finger on how, only that it unnerved him, got under his skin and crawled around there unpleasantly. It looked almost painted on, like a set piece for a school play: a very convincing fantasy, but a fantasy all the same. And the clouds were wrong, too; they twisted in the sky like clay and shifted unnaturally, making vaguely unsettling shapes before clarifying back into their original innocuous forms.

He and Jon were sitting in grass that was too green, but lifeless all the same. Martin realized they were in a clearing in a forest that seemed almost engineering to be spooky. The trees were dead and black, zigzagging and curling unnaturally into strange, shifting patterns, seeming to beckon to him and Jon with hands that were sharp with thorns and eager for blood. Martin shuddered away, stepping almost unconsciously closer to Jon as the trees seemed to press in on them.

Martin got the distinct impression that they had finally been noticed.

“I think…” Jon said carefully, eying the trees with mistrust, “...we’re in Wonderland.”

Martin would have laughed if he hadn’t been afraid the trees would take that as a challenge. “What are you _talking_ abo-“

Then Martin remembered what Jon had been doing as he had walked in: reading. And if working at the Institute had taught him anything about strange books...

“Jon, what did you _do?_ ”

Jon opened his mouth as if to explain, but stopped himself and grabbed frantically for Martin’s hand, eyes going wide. “We need to go, _now_ ,” he said, dragging Martin behind him as he made for a break in the trees.

“Go _where?!_ ” Martin shouted back as he followed, chancing a glance behind him. “What are you- oh God!”

There was a- _thing_ behind them, a thing that didn’t make any sense. He saw teeth, and claws, and eyes, but they never seemed to stay in the right place; they even looked like they were multiplying as the creature galloped behind them. Its eyes sparked red with flame, and Martin could hear strange noises coming from it as it approached at an alarming speed.

Generally, Martin tried not to curse, but he was finding that he might have to make an exception for the foreseeable future.

“What the _fuck!?_ ” he screamed, picking up the pace to run alongside Jon.

Jon, for his part, seemed to know where he was going, or at least was very good at pretending. His eyes moved from tree to tree with laser-like precision, apparently plotting a course for their mad dash through the twisted forest. Martin was too busy trying to ignore the awful slobbering noise behind them to say anything else; he just let Jon lead the way, praying to whatever God there might be that could reach them in this place that he, at least, knew what he was doing.

Jon jerked him out of his thoughts, quite literally, by yanking on his arm, pulling him to the side without slowing his pace. Martin stumbled, but continued, as he saw a shape appearing in the distance: a house. More like a cottage, actually.

“You- you think-“ he panted, catching up to Jon again as the cottage grew closer, “you think four walls- and- and a door- are gonna stop this thing?”

Jon still stared ahead, eyes fixed on his goal. “We’ll be safe there.” He didn’t seem out of breath in the slightest.

Cryptic. Martin wanted to scream at him, to ask him just what the hell he had gotten them into, but instead opted to speed up, running ahead of Jon and reaching the door first, throwing it open with a loud bang. Jon followed soon after, skidding to a stop just inside the building as Martin slammed the door shut with all his might.

The beast reached the door soon after, and Martin squeezed his eyes shut, preparing for the inevitable… But then it left. It simply… left them alone. Martin let loose a breathless laugh and collapsed flat on the floor, closing his eyes and waiting for his breathing to even out.

“Jon,” he panted, “you’ve got a _lot_ of explaining to do.”

Jon, for his part, collapsed bonelessly to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut, his head hitting the ground with a solid thunk. Martin groaned.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m updating more frequently cuz I have some free time before I gotta work for the summer and once I finish a chapter I gotta post it cuz I get too excited lol
> 
> Thank you everyone for the comments and kudos! Writing this story has been so fun so far and I’m excited for y’all to see where it goes!


	3. Seeing Clearly

Waking was usually a relief for Jon; it meant an end to the nightmares, at least for another day, even if it also meant returning to the archives, or seeking out evil beings that meant him harm to desperately beg for clues to the greater truth he was missing, all while under the Eye’s hungry gaze.

But the pounding in his head didn’t really encourage his wakefulness. He closed his eyes tighter and groaned, curling up in an attempt to make the pain go away.

“Oh, thank God you’re not dead,” rang out Martin’s voice, full of exasperated worry.

Blearily, Jon opened his eyes, regretting the action immediately as it sent a fresh spike of pain through his skull.

“Ah… Martin? What-“

He lifted his head with a groan and glanced around. He wasn’t in his flat, but he hardly ever was these days. He must have fallen asleep at the archives again, though the ceiling looked off, and the room looked tilted on its axis from where Jon lay on the floor. Sitting up did nothing to alleviate the off feeling, like the room was gently twirling around him. The walls were wrong, too; they moved in dizzying spirals, and Jon’s mind struggled to focus on any one section for too long. Where- why was he here? Why did nothing stand still here? Why did his shoulder hurt? Why-

Oh. The memories slammed back into him at full force, as did the fear and the guilt. What had he done, bringing Martin here? He had to find a way out, to get him back safe, he was _his_ responsibility, and if he got stuck here then it would be just like Sasha all over again-

“Jon?”

“-what?” Jon blinked at him.

“You were just making a face,” Martin said. “Are you alright? You hit the ground pretty hard.”

Ah, so that explained the headache pounding at the back of his skull. 

“I think I’m alright,” he said, feeling the back of his head and wincing. His hand didn’t come away bloody, so that was a relief, he supposed.

Martin didn’t look entirely convinced, but let it go easily enough. Probably because he had a whole slew of other questions that were currently taking precedence. Jon waited while he settled on one to start with.

“So… what exactly happened back there?” He asked after a few moments. “How did you know this house was here?”

“I, ah… I just… Knew,” Jon shrugged.

“Was it… you know…your spooky Archivist powers?” Martin waggled his fingers for added effect.

“They’re not _spooky_ ,” he scoffed automatically, then winced at himself. Old habits. “But yes, Martin, it was my… powers… that informed me of this place… the Beholding. I wanted desperately to find a safe place, and then I just, sort of…” he struggled for the right word, then sighed as he settled. “Knew. Where to go, and what to do, and all that.”

“Sounds pretty spooky to me…” Martin mumbled. Jon ignored him.

“But when I did that, it felt…” Jon paused. He wasn’t exactly sure what had happened, himself. He started over. “It’s- it’s hard for me to see clearly. Everything is all jumbled up together, the truths and the lies, and when I tried to parse it out I sort of… lost myself, a bit.” He thought for a moment. “I don’t actually remember anything after seeing that beast. The memories are in my head, but they’re not _my_ memories. I just… wasn’t there.”

Martin shuddered. “What, so the creepy thing that runs the Institute is possessing you now?”

“That’s no way to talk about Elias, Martin,” Jon quipped before he could think better of it.

Martin blinked at him for a second. “... Jon? Are you- are you _sure_ you don’t have a concussion? Because-“ and now Martin broke off into giggles, struggling to get the words out over his growing laughter, “because- if I’m not mistaken- I think you just told a joke!”

Then Martin collapsed to the ground in fits of laughter. As Jon watched him laugh almost hysterically, he felt a laugh bubbling up in his own chest. Soon they were both on the ground, screaming with laughter that threatened to choke them as they gasped around it.

“Martin, are we going mad already?” Jon asked between giggles.

“Seems like we are,” he replied in kind, shaking with laughter that pulled at Jon’s heart in a strange way. _I want to hear that laugh again_ , he thought suddenly and quite without his own permission. Before he could analyze the thought any further, he tucked it into one of the far corners of his mind.

_No time for that, now._ He let another chuckle flutter up from his chest to replace the feeling.

They went on like this for long enough that Jon really did start to worry about their sanity. But eventually they quieted down, breathing evening out as they laid on the cold stone floor.

“So, what now?” Martin asked, wiping tears from his eyes.

Jon thought hard, calling out for knowledge he did not possess. Then a spike of pain shot through his head as his vision split; one eye saw Martin, sitting there in front of him with a soft smile on his face, and the other saw a whirlpool of colors, red roses with thorns, sharp-toothed smile, a twisting spire, a red glass throne. He understood. “Ah-” he tamped down the well of knowledge threatening to spill out of him, just barely managing to hold off the oncoming flood. “Ah- we- we need to find the queen.”

Martin sat up at Jon’s pained noises. “Are you alright?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine,” Jon gasped. The pain faded, leaving only knowledge in its wake. “I just- it’s hard to control, sometimes. It- hurts, to See clearly, here. All the truth gets tangled up in the lies, and I can’t tell up from down. I think it’s because- everything is only half-real. Or- something like that.”

“What does that mean?” Martin asked, looking just as concerned as he was before.

Jon cocked his head. “I haven’t the foggiest.”

Martin gave a long suffering sigh. “Well, who’s this queen, then?” He said, making to get up and offering Jon his hand. Jon took it, and easily Martin lifted him to his feet in one smooth motion. He swayed for a moment as the blood rushed to his head, roaring in his ears and dimming his vision for a moment.

“Huh,” he muttered to himself. Martin was stronger than he looked. “Soft hands, too,” he mumbled, still a little woozy from the cranial trauma he was likely suffering.

Martin stared at him. “What was that?”

Jon’s eyes widened. Had he really said that out loud? “I- uh-”

“Hello?” Whispered a voice, and Jon turned to see a girl right at his elbow, with an unnatural look that he couldn’t quite identify on her small face. 

“Jesus Christ!” he squeaked involuntarily, stumbling back into Martin. “W- how long- who are you?!”

The Compulsion left Jon’s mouth without him meaning for it to. The girl looked at him, and for a split second Jon swore she was glaring at him with what could only be described as malice, but the look was gone a moment later.

_Just the paranoia, Jon, God knows you’ve got good reason for it here,_ he thought as the girl spoke.

“I’m sorry!” she stuttered, apparently startled to see them. “I’m the servant, I’m so sorry I wasn’t where I was supposed to be! Please don’t tell!” The fear on her face seemed off, somehow.

“Of course not,” Martin said gently, either not seeming to notice the strangeness of the girl or not caring. “What’s your name?”

The girl looked at him like he had grown a second head, the fear diminished significantly. “What would I need that for?”

“W- well-“ Martin floundered, absolutely baffled. “Everyone has a name? I thought?”

The girl harrumphed, looking a lot more confident than she had not two seconds ago. “Well, maybe where _you_ come from, but we don’t need those crude things here. We are and we aren’t, and everything that isn’t us is something else, until maybe it’s us again, or someone else. Why would I have a name for this,” and she gestured to herself, “if it would change so fast it would be impossible to keep track of! We’re always changing, every inch of us. Wouldn’t I have to have a new name for each new me? And how do I know which parts of me are me and which parts are just a me that isn’t me yet, or a part that used to be me but isn’t anymore?” Jon’s head was reeling in confusion as she finished her little rant. “And it’s a bit rude to assume things, isn’t it? You ought to learn some manners.”

The faux fear, as Jon now realized it had been, was now completely gone from her face. She looked like she was barely able to contain her excitement. Jon’s mind whirled further.

“Sorry…” Martin squeaked, grabbing onto Jon’s arm seemingly unconsciously and looking just as confused as Jon felt.

The servant sighed. “Well, I suppose there’s no reason to keep standing here idle. Come on, then.”

Jon held back, trying to compose himself. “W- where did you say we were going again?”

“I didn’t,” she replied, then fell silent.

“Oh. Well… would you?”

“Of course!” she chirped happily, then grabbed Jon by the hand and led him along. Jon tried not to flinch at the strange texture. “You’ve been invited by the Duchess herself!”

“Invited to what, exactly?” Jon asked, compulsion creeping into his voice. He was getting rather annoyed at this girl. She looked at him strangely.

“The tea party, of course,” she answered. “Are you really that daft? This _is_ Wonderland, after all.”

Jon bristled. “I don’t remember a shifting mass of fur and flesh in the original book.”

The servant laughed; it sounded just like Michael’s. “We have a strict rule against fourth wall breaks, here,” she replied in lieu of an answer. She was toying with him, now, dangling the truth in front of his face just to watch him squirm. Her smile stretched far too wide across her face. Jon raised his voice to cover his unease.

“But you’re the one-”

“Jon?” Martin interrupted. “I don’t think this is very… productive.”

Jon looked back at him, and was incensed to see him fighting back a smile. “We might die here, Martin, or have you forgotten?” He blurted out angrily.

“We’re usually one wrong step away from death, anyway.” He laughed then, and Jon suddenly wasn’t angry at all. “It’s nice to see you like this, though.”

Jon made an indignant noise. “Like what?” His head was still spinning with confusion, and he found it hard to focus Martin’s voice.

“Flustered,” Martin said immediately, then froze. “I mean, um. Not- not like that- um. Sorry.”

The confusion stopped cold for a moment, replaced by- something else. Jon quickly turned away so Martin wouldn’t see the heat rising to his face. “Ah. Um.”

The rest of the walk was spent in awkward silence. Jon tried to take in the details of the little cottage- which was beginning to seem a lot less little the longer their walk continued- but when he looked at any one place for more than a second, his head started to ache again. He did notice that the corridor they were traveling through should have certainly doubled over itself more than once. And the pictures on the walls kept moving and shifting in the corner of his eye. Everything was wrong and impossible, and Jon’s headache kept getting worse the more he tried to make sense of it, to See all of it.

Martin came up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“...Hurts,” he grit out, then shook his head. “It’s… fine.”

Martin gave him a worried look, but didn’t say anything more.

And then- the hallway ended. Jon didn’t realize how dizzy he had become until the world suddenly stood still- well, mostly still- again. They were outside, the grass swaying and swirling at his feet. Had there been a door? Jon hadn’t remembered going through one.

“Here we are!” The servant said brightly as Jon stumbled forward. “The Duchess is waiting.” Her smile was sharp enough to cut through bone.

Martin steadied Jon as he tried to blink his vision clear; for some reason, he didn’t seem to be as affected by the constant shifting, though Jon couldn’t figure out why that was. 

“Wh-” Jon started, turning around, but the servant was already gone. The cottage was gone, too; they were now standing in an absolutely empty field with grass that came up to Jon’s knees. The only significant objects nearby were a large tree behind them, and a long and lopsided table a few hundred feet away from them. From their current distance, Jon could only vaguely make out a few figures clustered in the chairs. 

He looked at Martin. “I suppose we don’t have a choice.”

Martin shrugged. “Maybe the tea will be good?”

And they both trudged off in the direction of the tea party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so updates are gonna come slower now since im working over the summer, but ive got a lot planned for this so i WILL see it through to completion!!  
> thanks for reading as always!!


	4. The Tea Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild body horror in this one so be mindful!  
> Also minor blood and injury

Jon stumbled at Martin’s side as they made their way to the table. He stared intently at his feet while they walked, as if he were one wrong step from tumbling over into the grass.

Martin was getting tired of the worry Jon always brought out in him. Why did he look so dizzy, so lost and hazy? Martin fought the urge to put his hand on his shoulder, just in case Jon started to list to the side or collapse into the grass. He didn’t think Jon would approve, even if he was a little dazed.

Instead he focused his attention at the tea party as it came into view. The table was long; it looked like it could comfortably sit almost twenty people. There were many more chairs than twenty, though; about a third of them weren’t even pushed up to the table because there wasn’t room. Most of them were empty, Martin realized as they got closer. But they didn’t… _feel_ empty. The table felt absolutely packed with people, though Martin only saw a few vague figures. He shook his head to clear it.

As they approached, the air seemed to get heavier, almost as if it were weighing down on them. Martin started to feel dizzy, so he could only imagine how Jon must have been feeling.

At the head of the table sat a man in red. He had on a hat that didn’t make sense; it looked too heavy for his head, for one thing, but it also bent and curved in ways gravity shouldn’t have allowed. Martin felt his vision spin as he looked at it and stumbled forward. Jon looked about ready to hurl on the spot, and grabbed Martin’s arm for support. 

“Oh! More guests!” the man exclaimed, delighted. His head tilted his head almost ninety degrees, and Martin tried to ignore the cracking sound that echoed through the space between them. The man’s smile cracked open his face unnaturally. “You’re late.”

“S-sorry,” Martin muttered. Every seat was filled, except two. Most contained twisted clay figures that writhed almost unnoticeably. They had faces that twisted into themselves and bodies that couldn’t have supported their weight, and their hands and empty eye sockets dripped red clay onto the table like blood. 

The other seats were… occupied. Martin was sure of it. He didn’t know how he was sure, since there wasn’t anyone actually in the seats, but he felt them looking at him, smiling at him, taking him in and getting into his head…

He grabbed Jon’s hand and dragged him to the empty seats at the opposite end of the table. Jon followed without complaint and collapsed in his chair, breathing heavily. 

“Drink,” the man ordered. His smile cut through Martin like a knife through butter. 

Martin looked down; each place at the table was set with a clay saucer and teacup. A matching teapot sat in the center of the table, a surprisingly ordinary one compared to the rest of the things they had seen so far. There was nothing else on the table, no biscuits, no sugar, not even any utensils.

“Are you… the Duchess?” Jon asked, and Martin shuddered at the way his question pulled at the air, demanding an answer. The figure laughed.

“I am someone, perhaps. But not that someone. Not now. Not… yet.”

“Where can we find them?” Jon continued.

“Here, but not this here. Another time, maybe soon. Maybe not.” The grin stayed in place throughout the questioning.

“What does that _mean_?” Jon asked through gritted teeth. He sighed, then changed tactics. “How can we find the queen?”

The figure leaned forward. “You will find her when she wants to be found.”

“When will _that_ be?!”

“Once you have satisfied her,” the figure replied. His breathing was heavier, Martin noticed, and he looked like he was sweating. “T- then she will reveal herself.”

“ _What do we need to do to satisfy her?_ ” Jon growled, and Martin wasn’t sure if it was his voice any longer. The strange, red-clothed figure was shaking, now.

“I- I don’t know,” he gasped, and slammed his palms on the table. He was sweating profusely now, his face gleaming with it. His hands formed wet spots on the tablecloth.

“Jon?” Martin asked uneasily.

Either Jon didn’t hear, or he didn’t care. “ _Tell me where we need to go next._ ”

The man was gasping now, trying to get air into his lungs as his body shook around him. He was sweating so much Martin almost thought that he was… was melting.

“I- I,” the man stuttered.

“ _Where?_ ” Jon’s voice echoed loudly in Martin’s mind. He clutched his head as static flooded his ears.

The man across the table shouted something unintelligible. Martin looked up just in time to see the left side of his face slough off and fall to the table with a disgusting wet slap. The man’s face was hollow on the inside- made of clay.

“Where-“ Jon repeated, then collapsed back into his seat once more, breathing hard. “M-Martin,” he gasped, then turned to look at him. “Martin, what- what are you doing?”

Martin looked down at his hands, then, and saw a full teacup almost at his lips. He screamed and dropped it to the table, where it landed with almost the same wet slap that the man’s face had made. The clay was still wet. A strange substance oozed from the cup, red and thick and… wrong, of course. He looked away to see Jon staring in horror at the slowly drooping body of the clay man.

“What did you do to him?” Martin whispered. Jon looked back at him with eyes wide with terror.

“I didn’t- _do_ anything, I just asked…” Jon looked like he was going to be sick. “You don’t think- I didn’t do that, did I? I couldn’t- I-“ His breathing picked up as he spoke.

“No, no, he wasn’t real,” Martin assured him. “You didn’t… you know. He wasn’t real.”

Jon didn’t look convinced, but nodded anyway. “Right. Right, okay. What was... what do you think was in that cup?” He nodded to the red stain slowly spreading across the tablecloth. “Is it blood?”

“I don’t think so,” he answered, poking it with his finger. “It’s too… gelatinous. It certainly isn’t tea, though.”

Jon chuckled. “Well, you do know your tea.”

“What do you think would’ve happened if I had-“

“Best not to dwell on it.” Jon’s mouth was a hard, determined line. “Nothing good.”

“Right. Yeah.” Martin looked at Jon, really looked at him; his face was pale and pinched, his breathing heavy and labored. “Are you alright?”

“To be honest, I’m not quite sure,” Jon laughed shakily. “Being in this place… the mind can’t survive long in a place like this.”

“But- your spoo- your Archivist powers. Does it… hurt you? The Eye?”

Jon’s eyes got a far away look in them as he thought. “It doesn’t really hurt, not… not on purpose, at least. I think it doesn’t understand my limits. Or _I_ don’t understand _its_ limits. It gets too much, but the Eye wants more and more. And I can’t keep giving.”

Martin’s heart ached for him to grab Jon’s hand, to tell him it was alright and that he didn’t need to push himself so hard. He didn’t, of course. But he did let his hand fall onto Jon’s shoulder. To his surprise, Jon leaned into the touch. 

“Thank you,” Jon said, and he must really be feeling bad for him to say _that_ , especially to Martin.

“Oh. Y- yeah, you’re welcome. I just- worry about you.”

Jon nodded. “I know. I am sorry about that. And for… bringing you here.”

“I made my choice, alright? It wasn’t your fault.”

“But I am responsible for your safety,” Jon mumbled, putting his face in his hands. “And Tim’s, and Melanie’s, and… Sasha’s.”

Martin’s heart twisted painfully at her name. “There was nothing-“

“There had to have been something,” he interrupted. “Something I could have done…”

“Jon-“ Martin cut himself off as he heard a strange noise- a wet thud, followed by a strangled moan. “What was that?”

The moan grew in intensity until it became almost a scream. Martin looked across the table in horror to see the man twisting, folding in on himself like someone was molding him into a new shape. The other clay figures collapsed onto the table, their mangled forms squirming to the head of the table, mingling with the fallen man until they were indistinguishable from each other.

“What’s happening?” Martin screamed.

“I don’t- I don’t know,” Jon pushed his chair back from the table and scrambled to his feet, grabbing Martin’s hand and dragging him with him. The shape at the head of the table writhed and bulged; skeletal arms shot out from its belly, and two eye sockets as big as fists stared at them with palpable hatred.

“You’ve ruined my favorite watchman,” it spoke, garbled and wet. “You’ve overstayed your welcome, _Archivist_.”

“Who are you?!” Jon shouted as he pulled Martin away from the table.

“You will not disrespect me!” The thing screamed instead of an answer, and crawled across the long table faster than Martin’s eyes could follow.  
He looked to Jon as his eyes went wide.

“Martin-!”

He felt a sharp pain as the creature jabbed its hand through his upper arm. Martin screamed.

“ _Stop,_ ” Jon yelled, his voice echoing in a sonic boom across the empty field. The creature screamed so loud that Martin almost sobbed with the pain. 

“ _Drop him. Now._ ”

Martin screamed again as the creature released its hold on him. He grabbed at his arm where it had pierced straight through.

“ _Leave us alone. Or die._ ”

The creature bucked and twisted, its limbs retracting into its body and extending again. It in pain as it stumbled away from them, half crawling, half slithering across the ground like a snake. 

Martin sat where he was, breathing heavily. Jon’s face appeared above him; it was completely devoid of color except for the bright red trickles of blood that dribbled from his nose and his left ear. His hands trembled as he knelt down beside him.

“Martin, are you-“

“I’m fine,” he bit out through the pain. It was already starting to ease slightly. “Just need to… stop the bleeding.”

Jon nodded and without another word tore the bottom of his shirt into a neat strip of cloth. He wrapped it carefully around Martin’s arm, his nimble fingers gentle so as not to hurt him. Martin watched his face as he worked. It was tight and drawn with… worry, he realized. He hadn’t even bothered to wipe the blood from his own face, and without thinking Martin brought up his good hand and smoothed it away.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Martin said.

Jon looked at him with worried eyes. “I did.” He looked off to where the creature had gone with a strange look on his face. “I think that was the Duchess.” Martin didn’t know how he had come to that conclusion, probably the Archivist powers, but he didn’t really care what that thing was as long as it was gone.

Martin sighed, and experimentally moved his arm. It hurt, but it was manageable, though the ragged wound would be hard to explain to the doctors when they got home. He stood up, only swaying slightly, and offered Jon his hand.

“Should we… keep moving, then?”

Jon nodded, and reached for Martin’s hand. Martin lifted him up, and Jon leaned heavily into him, unable to support his weight, apparently. 

“That was stupid. You look like you’re on death’s door,” Martin chided. Jon chuckled weakly, but didn’t offer any apology or excuse. They stumbled onward in a random direction; their fate would find them anyway, whichever way they chose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The clay guy was one of my favorite statements he’s so creepy...  
> Also the man who wasn’t there... maybe he’ll “appear” again, who knows.... ;)


	5. Growing Weary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for taking so long! I've been stressed beyond belief lately

Jon and Martin struggled through the field together, Jon trying his very hardest to stay on his feet. The tall grass tickled his ankles. It almost felt like it was grabbing at him, like scratchy tendrils clinging to his feet as he tiredly trudged along beside Martin.

His head was still throbbing as he looked up at Martin, trying not to sway when the world spun dizzily around him. Martin’s face was pinched; Jon felt guilt clench his gut at the sight. He was hurt because Jon dragged him along. If he had just waited to open the book, or- or done something to prevent Martin from coming-

“Stop it.” Martin was looking down at him with a look halfway between concern and irritation.

“Hmm? I didn’t do anything.”

“You were thinking about something,” Martin replied. “Something stupid, probably, judging by that look on your face.”

Jon scoffed. “What look?”

Martin’s smile was lopsided; Jon’s heart stuttered in his chest. “Like you’re trying to solve all the world’s problems by thinking very hard about them. Or like you’re constipated.”

Jon spluttered. “I do _not_ look like-”

“You really do!” Martin laughed and leaned closer to him. “You get this little wrinkle in your forehead, and your eyes are all crinkled, and you just look so-” He cut himself off. “Ah- never mind. It’s just very…” Martin looked like he was about to say something, then thought better of it. “... you.”

Jon rolled his eyes, but he was smiling now, too. “And just what does that mean?”

Martin laughed and nudged Jon’s shoulder in lieu of an answer. Although Martin was already half holding Jon upright, a jolt went through him at the casual contact. He promptly ignored it. Although, as they walked, Jon couldn’t really push down the strange feeling that was blossoming in his chest. When he looked at Martin walking steadily along beside him, placing a hand gently on his elbow when he stumbled and slowing his pace when Jon’s dizziness overtook him, he felt a deep fondness spreading through him. He couldn’t help but smile when Martin looked at him with those soft brown eyes; he felt… almost safe, despite their surroundings. Jon didn’t know why, and he didn’t have the energy to ponder it for any longer than a moment, anyway.

Martin eventually broke the silence. “You know, I hate to ask, but… do we have any sort of plan?”

“Well, the Duchess seemed to think that the queen would come to us when she was good and ready, so…”

Martin frowned. “So- what? We wander around and get attacked by monsters until eventually we either die or some queen deems us worthy for an audience? No offense, Jon, but that seems like a very bad plan. Even for you.”

“What’s that supposed to m-”

“You don’t… Know anything else about this place?” Martin interrupted.

Jon sighed. “I could try…”

“No! Jon, you’re barely standing as it is.” Then Martin sighed too, giving Jon a concerned look. “I just meant something you already learned. I don’t think you should try using your powers again. For awhile, at least.”

His worry made Jon uncomfortable. He straightened up and gave Martin a stern look. “I can handle myself, Martin.”

Martin looked like he was going to argue, then thought better of it. “Alright, then. But you’re going to wait until we find a place for us to rest, at least. I’m tired, too.” He gently touched his arm where the clay had stabbed through him. Jon felt the guilt rush back, and with it, a new determination to do whatever it took to get them out of this place, no matter the cost.

“Alright.”

They walked in tense silence after that, Martin grabbing onto him a little too tightly for his comfort. Jon didn’t mention it, and Martin didn’t mention the way Jon leaned further and further into the contact as his energy waned. 

The scenery around them changed gradually; for a long time, the field of long green grass they traveled remained completely uniform, with nothing breaking the monotony as far as they could see all the way to the horizon. Jon wasn’t sure when the grass changed into dirt beneath his feet, or when the sky faded from a brilliant, blinding blue into a dim grey. As soon as he realized, though, he glanced backwards; sure enough, the field he and Martin had just wandered through was no longer visible anywhere on the horizon. Instead, a dirt road stretched behind them, empty except for their footprints. In front of them, a smattering of small buildings were clustered around the road- a village, it looked like.

“Maybe they’ll have a place for us to stay,” said Martin nervously. Jon didn’t really want to see what passed for an inn in this place, but there didn’t seem to be another option. He just nodded, and allowed Martin to lead them into the village. 

The first thing Jon noticed was the people. They moved strangely, stiffly, as if their skin wasn’t containing their insides correctly. Jon was reminded of Michael, and shuddered at the thought of a whole village full of things like him. 

Martin did not seem to be fazed by the villagers strange appearances, though, and walked up to a woman holding what looked almost like an infant in her arms. She turned to them with an uncanny smile on her lips. 

“Um, excuse me, miss, is there an inn of some sort here? My friend and I need a place to stay.” Martin gave a charming smile, but his grip tightened around Jon’s arm as the woman replied.

“Oh, you’re not from here,” she said, grinning still. Her face looked like Michael’s. “Been awhile since there’s been visitors in Wonderland.”

Martin continued uneasily. “Um. Yes. S- so, we need some place-”

“A place to stay, you said. Yes. I heard. You know, some won’t take kindly to one of your kind here,” she said, nodding towards Jon. A chill went through him, but he ignored it.

“We’ll be sure to remember that,” Jon said cooly, standing up straighter in an attempt to seem more intimidating. He was sure it hadn’t worked when the woman’s smile grew wider.

“Well, this will be interesting,” she said, and laughed gratingly. “There.” She pointed to an unremarkable building that Jon hadn’t noticed before. A sign hung above the door, swaying gently, but Jon couldn’t make it out from that distance. “Be careful, Archivist.” Then the woman ambled awkwardly away, skin shifting unnaturally as she moved. The child she was carrying watched them over her shoulder, smile just as wide as its mother’s had been. Jon shrugged off a shiver and made his way towards the inn, Martin following closely behind.

The sign above the inn was… unreadable. The words shifted and writhed, and what letters Jon could make out were from no language he was familiar with. Jon couldn’t really find it in himself to care, though, and he shoved the door open without sparing the sign a second glance. 

The inn was empty; there was a desk at the front of the lobby with a rack behind it that looked like it might hold keys, had there been any besides the one that sat square in the middle of the desk. He snatched it up with more force than was probably necessary.

“I suppose our room is 312,” he sighed. Martin shifted uncomfortably behind him.

“Is this… alright? Just barging in like this?”

Jon snorted. “I don’t particularly care, honestly. I doubt any of those people are going to leave us alone either way.”

“Fair point.” Martin still looked uneasy, though. Jon trudged up the stairs anyway, not bothering to look behind him to see if he was following. The sooner they found this room, the sooner Jon could try to find a way out of this place. He ignored the aching in his body as he ascended, focusing only on climbing as his mind wandered. Eventually, Martin’s voice startled him back to awareness.

“Jon?”

“What, Martin?” He snapped with more vitrol than he had intended. He didn’t look back, simply kept putting one foot in front of the other with increasing difficulty. 

“Don’t you think,” he panted, “we’ve been climbing for awhile? Maybe- too long?”

To be honest, Jon’s mind had been wandering so far that he had no idea how long it had been since he began his ascent. “Well, it’s just as wrong as everything else in this place,” he muttered, and continued climbing.

“Jon, stop, don’t you think we should-”

“Should what?” Jon spun around, and this time his anger startled even him. “ _You’re_ the one who wanted to stop and rest, you know. We could have just kept walking.” Even as Jon said it, he knew it wasn’t quite true; whoever- or whatever- was following their progress in this place wouldn’t have just let them keep going without suffering through whatever was waiting for them here. He swayed gently as the Knowing washed over him, his vision flickering for just a moment.

Martin looked at him in alarm. “Jon, what-”

“I’m fine, Martin, just… tired.”

“No, Jon, what- what is that?”

Jon’s brow furrowed as he turned around. “What are you-”

But then Jon saw it, too. Well, “saw” wasn’t the right word; he felt it more than anything, the presence in front of them. Because, when he looked, there was no one there. But there was, Jon was sure of it, there was _someone there_ , and that someone meant him harm, he was so sure of that fact that his legs turned liquid beneath him. He stumbled backwards into Martin, shaking on his unsteady legs. 

“What is that?!” Martin repeated, grabbing at Jon frantically and yanking him back down the stairs. The person who wasn’t followed them, and Jon felt its fingernails scratch against his skin as they bolted away.

“Whatever it is, it doesn’t seem too fond of us!” Jon stumbled alongside Martin, trying to ignore the way his body screamed at him with every step, and the way the stairwell seemed to be closing in on them, though whether it actually was or if it was simply a product of his tunneling vision Jon wasn’t sure. Then, through another flash of Knowing that almost sent him sprawling, a door appeared in his mind, just a few steps ahead of them.

“There!” He yelled, scrambling frantically in front of Martin to shove the door open. They fell into the room in a heap as the person outside barreled past them, making no sound. Jon lay sprawled on the floor, trying to get air back into his lungs and only partially succeeding.

“Well,” Martin said, laughing. “I suppose we found our room.”

Jon glanced up to see the bed tucked neatly into the corner, and groaned.

“Perfect. Now what’s the number I can call to complain about the customer service?”

Martin laughed as Jon stumbled forward into the bed. Not even bothering to pull aside the covers, he was unconscious almost as soon as his body was horizontal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you everyone who continues to read this and thanks to everyone who's ever commented, you give me life.....


	6. Dreamland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUESS WHO'S BACK  
> BACK AGAIN
> 
> anyway I finally got the inspiration needed to finish this chapter at midnight and so here it is
> 
> thank you everyone who's read this, it means a lot to me :')

So far, Martin pondered, it had seemed that he and Jon were purposefully being shuffled from horror to horror without any breaks in between. That made their brief respite in this “inn” all the more troubling. Still, Martin couldn’t help the embarrassing flutter in his chest at the sight of Jon’s sleeping face, free of the worry lines that usually pinched around his eyes and mouth. 

Jon had collapsed onto the bed without even taking off his shoes, and was snoring in a matter of seconds. As he looked at him, Martin started to feel his own eyelids droop as well. He hadn’t quite realized just how tired he had gotten; now that the adrenaline from their many near-death experiences had worn off, he felt the exhaustion deep down in his bones, overpowering the fear and paranoia. He shuffled over to the bed, stifling a yawn, and shook Jon gently.

“Oi, Jon,” he said, halfway through another yawn. “Move over.”

Jon was sleeping the sleep of the dead, and only snored loudly in reply. Martin snorted, smiling far more fondly than he would allow himself to had Jon been awake. Stubborn, even in sleep. 

Suddenly, Martin was struck with a pang of longing. This was all so terribly domestic and familiar, as if he and Jon were- _together._ Jon shifted in his sleep, mumbling something, and Martin felt his heart go soft with love he barely ever dared to admit to himself. He tried not to think about how much he would miss this closeness when they returned to the real world. 

If they returned to the real world.

Martin frowned as he sat down on the bed. Of course they would get back. He looked to Jon, snoring peacefully, and smiled again. He would make sure Jon got back safe. He was the Head Archivist, after all, and the others needed him. Martin’s mind was starting to go fuzzy with sleep, but he knew without a doubt that he would not let anything happen to his Jon.

He all but collapsed into the bed beside Jon, shoving him bodily til he was pressed against the wall. Jon didn’t stir. The bed wasn’t big; Martin could barely fit without pressing his entire body up next to Jon’s. He honestly didn’t mind, though. Jon was so warm, and he was the only other real thing in the whole world besides himself. No spirals, no clay, no impossible twisting- just another human body beside him, breathing steadily. He reached for Jon’s hand against his better judgement. Martin’s movements were clumsier than they should have been, but he didn’t much care. He interlocked Jon’s fingers with his before tumbling headfirst into sleep.

He opened his eyes.

Martin knew it was a dream immediately, which was strange; he’d never had a lucid dream before, but he supposed nothing here was as it should be, so he truly shouldn’t be surprised. The dreamscape around him swirled deliriously, blurred and soft at the edges. The sky was technicolor, shifting from blue to green to yellow to orange, oozing like a lava lamp from one color to the next. It made Martin’s head ache.

They weren’t in the room anymore; instead a white floor stretched out beneath him, contrasting sharply with the writhing colors of the sky. It went on in all directions, unbroken all the way to the horizon except for a vague shape off to his left. Martin started towards it, then staggered when the distance between him and the object vanished all at once and he was before it; he stumbled from the sudden vertigo as he took in what was before him. 

It was a solid block of the same white material that the floor was made out of, large enough to hold a body across its length. Specifically, to hold Jon’s body. He lay there motionless except for the steady rise and fall of his chest. It looked far too much like an altar, with Jon as the sacrificial lamb. On the opposite side of Jon’s prone form was a… shape. It blended into the pulsating sky, a distortion of air that was vaguely person-shaped. It stood over Jon as its body slowly morphed in and out of focus, a warping in space that Martin somehow knew was staring at him.

“Hello,” the figure said simply. Its hands hovered over Jon’s sleeping form and Martin let out an involuntary noise of protest. It looked at him again; it didn’t have a mouth, but it was still smiling at him, Martin was sure.

“What are you doing to him?” He blurted out. The figure tilted its head (at least, Martin got that impression, it wasn’t like the figure had one to tilt). Then it was in front of him, before Martin could even blink.

“He’s dreaming,” the figure said. “Much less pleasant than this, though.”

“What?”

“The Archivist. He’s dreaming. Not even the Distortion can reach him there, under the Eye’s full surveillance.”

Martin looked to Jon, watching as his eyes flickered beneath his eyelids. “I’m… sorry?”

The figure smiled. “It’s irrelevant, anyway.” He looked to Jon, and suddenly the altar was gone and nothing but the swirling sky remained. Martin scrambled over to the empty space.

“What- what did you do to him?”

“Relax, Assistant. He wasn’t ever really here. It’s a dream, after all.” The being laughed, and for a moment it’s form fell into confusing clarity. It was a collection of sharp shapes jittering against each other, like a video game glitch made physical. Then it settled back into the soft vagueness of before, much to Martin’s relief. The being tilted it’s nonexistent head again.

“You’re worried about him.” Its tone invited no argument.

“Obviously, yeah,” Martin muttered. “The man looks like he’s about to keel over the longer he stays in this place.”

“The Spiral and the Eye don’t tend to mix well, no,” the being mused, almost to itself. “There is no truth here, except for madness and confusion and fear. Nothing real for the Eye to know completely this deep in our hallways.”

Martin groaned in frustration. “ _What_ are you talking about- and, who- what are you? And why did you bring me here?”

The being smiled, a flash of colors highlighting its full form for a split second before vanishing again. “The first… is unimportant. We are the Spiral, the Distortion- that is all that matters to you. You’re in our territory, after all, our prey.”

Martin struggled to make sense of its words, wondering if it was just his own ignorance or the general off-putting feel of the place that was sending his head spinning. “I’m- what?”

It sighed, its shape rippling in what seemed like either annoyance or amusement, possibly both. “Not that your confusion isn’t delicious, but we did have a reason for bringing you here.”

Martin ignored the first half of the sentence with some difficulty and focused on the second. “Why?”

It was smiling, Martin thought, as it leaned closer. “The Archivist won’t survive here long. He’s dwindling, isn’t he?” Martin felt his blood run cold.

“Then tell us how to get out of here, then!” He shouted, trying not to sound too desperate. The creature lifted a hand to his face, then, fingers hovering just above the surface of his skin. Martin’s skin prickled.

“You already know; the Queen.”

“How do we find her?” 

“She will come to you, Assistant, when she deems you ready.”

“Well, what the bloody hell am I supposed to do with that?” Martin barely resisted the urge to scream at the thing in front of him. It smiled at him, and Martin could see it this time- a sharp-toothed grin in an empty face. 

“Reality is never truly as it seems, Assistant. And, for some reason, people seem to find that terrifying. They would prefer it to be simple and carefully catalogued, with everything having a simple, knowable answer. But existence is messy, and confusing, and in truth you humans have no way of knowing just what the world is like outside of your own experience. How do you know if something is shaping every aspect of your life to fit some twisted dream? And what would you even do about it if you did know? It’s delightful, isn’t it, Assistant?” It laughed at the unsettled look on Martin’s face. “No, I suppose not. You Institute types don’t seem to like it all that when something is vague and contorted.”

Martin looked as it shifted restlessly in its vague body. It seemed upset. Something occurred to Martin, then, and he started talking before he thought better of it. 

“Are you- Michael?” He blurted out. The being laughed, and it certainly did sound like Michael, that grating laugh that sent Martin’s head reeling. 

“I’m not anyone, Assistant,” it said. “I’m as not as a thing can be. You could say Michael is a part of me, or I am a part of him, or we’re two not-things that just happen to exist in a similar space. But, I am not him in the way you are speaking of, just as your fingertips are not you, and you are not your fingertips, and your fingertips are not your elbows.”

“Oh- al-alright.” Martin didn’t understand in the slightest, but he wasn’t going to push the issue. “But you didn’t answer me- how do we get out of here?”

“The Queen doesn’t just let people leave, you know,” the being said. “She’ll make you go mad before she even considers it, and by then your Archivist will be wasted away to nothing.”

Martin grit his teeth. “What in the _fuck_ am I supposed to do, then?”

Then the being brought up its other hand to frame Martin’s face. “What are you willing to do for him?”

The question sent a thrill of fear down Martin’s spine, but not as much as his own answer. “Anything.”

The raw truth in it scared even him.

And the being came into full focus, just for a moment. It’s eyes were wide and round and rippled like twin lakes in its over-large sockets. It didn’t have a nose, but it’s mouth curved up to fill the space left behind, and stretched until it almost touched its ears. The strange rainbow gleam of its skin shifted and undulated, simultaneously appearing geometric and fluid in the way it bulged across its body. Then its hands came to rest on either side of Martin’s face, and immediately Martin’s vision contorted and twisted, sending a spike of pain through his skull as the creature laughed again.

“Don’t worry, you won’t die just yet,” the being soothed. “That part is incredibly time consuming, and frankly your Archivist doesn’t have the time to spare.”

Martin tried his hardest to listen as his body seemed shift around him. He wasn’t sure which parts were his any more, and which parts were a part of the creature, or which parts weren’t even there at all. His mind struggled to make sense of what was happening to him as the universe spun wildly around him, the sky above becoming the floor and the floor becoming walls enclosing him as he watched with eyes that weren’t where they were supposed to be. He tried to speak, but he thought he might have just screamed again, though he couldn’t figure out where his ears were, so he couldn’t quite hear. 

“Almost done!” The being spoke from somewhere off to Martin’s left. He whipped his head up to look at it, but staggered as the world kaleidoscoped and fragmented before his eyes. It wasn’t real, Martin told himself, this wasn’t _real_ \- but that didn’t stop the swirling in his head and around his body.

“Now, it should be- wait.”

The being appeared in Martin’s vision, its gigantic mouth now turned down at the edges, smearing and smudging as Martin watched. “Are you- Assistant, why wouldn’t you-”

A blinding pain shot through Martin’s skull and he definitely screamed that time, clutching at where his head should be, relieved that it seemed to be so. The world was gradually congealing back into its original form, the swirling settling down until it was almost manageable as the being’s frown deepened.

“But- we- if the Assistant were simply claimed by the Eye, we should be able to take him for ourselves…”

“ _Shut UP!_ ” Martin screamed, clutching his head as the world finally settled back to stillness. He breathed heavily for a moment, fighting off nausea. The creature, blessedly, remained silent as Martin steadied himself.

“Now,” he said, straightening back up. “What in the _hell_ was that about?”

The being just looked at him, clearing his throat and then speaking in an oddly strained voice.

“I know what you are, Assistant.”

“What are you-”

“Ask your Mother then, Weaver. She has threads even here.”

Martin felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. “My.. my mother? Weaver? I don’t-”

“Don’t let your Archivist down, Weaver.”

“But wait, I don’t know what you mean-”

And the world dissolved in a flash of neon color, and Martin bolted upright in bed. Jon was still out cold beside him, eyes flickering behind his eyelids as he dreamed. 

_Mother… Weaver… what the hell am I supposed to do with that?_ He thought to himself. He brought a hand to his face to rub at his eyes, and startled when he looked at it.

It was covered in cobwebs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading!!! I think I know how this is gonna end now, though I have no idea how long its gonna take for us to get there! 
> 
> But thank you so much for reading, and leave a comment if you want they make me so happy!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I will update as frequently as I can!
> 
> Find me on tumblr [@babyneedsnack](https://babyneedsnack.tumblr.com/)


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